


Grey Faces

by StrikeMyHeart



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 09:52:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16115978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrikeMyHeart/pseuds/StrikeMyHeart
Summary: “The past is never dead. It's not even past.”― William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun“My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder.”― William Golding





	Grey Faces

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to LulaisaKitten for her beta reading and encouragement.
> 
> I have so much enjoyed reading the fanfics here and I would like to offer this as a thank you. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Constructive criticism is always appreciated.

He woke with an angry shout, covered in sweat and entangled in torn sheets he’d ripped while in the throes of a nightmare. Moonlight peered through the window struggling to illuminate the scene beyond the grimy pane of glass; a pointless endeavour when there wasn't much worth seeing in the room. He didn't have a home, just a place to sleep. Normally he was fine with that, being alone let the thoughts crowd in. Tonight he would have welcomed even the aloof company of the pale moon.

Breathing deeply helped calm his pounding heart and ease the rage he usually kept well tamped down. He swore fluently and focused on the water stain on the ceiling in an attempt to blot out all thought. If he focused on the stain long enough it would help. Recently it had grown and instead of the dog-like image he'd seen before, he saw something resembling a fat pig. "Fat pig, ready for the slaughterhouse", he muttered, "just like that fucker in my dream."

That damned dream again. Would the past never let him go? Leda lying amidst the fancy pillows and the fake furs getting drowsier as the drugs took their final, everlasting hold. Whittaker standing by the bed, syringe in hand, laughing. And he was not there to stop it. Helpless, he hated feeling helpless and he knew there was nothing he could do. Not now, and not then. It didn't stop the guilt and the pain and the rage, no matter how busy he kept and how much he drank. In the end he could not protect her and it ate away at his guts preventing any chance of peace.

He dashed away the tears. Tear-stained and snot-nosed was not the face he showed the world and there was only one thing that would help right now. Whenever he felt the world closing in one thing would help. And only one other person would understand.

Without stopping to think about it he fumbled for his phone, knocking over empty beer bottles and a full ashtray in the process. In the dark, staring at the ceiling, he waited for the call to be picked up.

He heard the familiar grumpy voice in his ear, "Jesus, Shanker it's gone 4 am, what is it?" Then a grudging, "You all right?"

Shanker cleared his throat and tried to infuse his voice with its usual cockiness. " 'course it is, Bunsen. I lost track of time is all. Anyways, I thought I'd put some flowers on your Mum's grave. There's an all night shop has some."

Cormoran sighed, his voice losing its grumpy edge and softening with sympathy, "Want some company? You buy the flowers and I'll bring the beer. We can meet in Whitechapel."

"A'right then, see ya there, Bunsen."


End file.
